A Little Bit Ruined (An 8th Year Drarry Fanfiction)
by avadakedamn
Summary: A STUDY ON THE SAVIOUR AND THE SAVED. (discontinued over here! the rest of the story can be found via the link in my bio)
1. China Doll: A Prologue

China Doll: A Prologue

Poised and appearing porcelain pale in the sunlight, Draco Malfoy looked quite like a china doll from afar. In fact, upon further inspection one would find he almost perfectly resembled the rigid figures, with his ever-present mask of expressionless features painted on by a careful hand.

Queer things, china dolls are.

At first glance they appear sturdy and strong, but one soon learns that all it takes is a simple _push_ for the delicate statue to shatter.

The china doll itself knows this, too. It knows its delicacy - but it would never admit it if you were to bring up the matter.

The wisest of us pity them. We know that behind the carefully painted features is an unannounced fear all china dolls are forced to live with, a fear that haunts them like a shadow.

A fear of a clumsy child picking them up and holding them with careless hands. A fear of cracking.

Of breaking.

So in many ways, Draco was very much like a china doll.

For he knew that one look from those broken green eyes, and he would simply shatter.


	2. I The Problem With Cupboards

**Chapter One: The Problem With Cupboards**

 **Draco**

 _Home_.

More often than not, the word is said fondly, with a trace of a smile and bright eyes. Home means childhood memories: tree-houses and sleepovers and movie nights. Or, in the case of wizards, broomstick rides and Bernie Botts Every Flavored Beans and chasing after chocolate frogs.

But to others, home means something quite different. To Harry Potter, home meant the Dursleys: baggy clothes and cans of soup and dark cupboards, up until he was 18.

 _Cupboards_. He wasn't the only one who had developed a distaste for them.

Cupboards held nightmarish memories for someone else at Hogwarts as well. To that someone else, cupboards also meant screams and tears.

But unlike Harry, cupboards also meant Silencing Charms and angry hands and pleading and bruises, to that person.

 _Home, sweet home._

* * *

He should've been used to it, by now.

The cracking of the belt, the horrible bolt of pain that splintered throughout his thin body soon after. The urge to scream burning in his throat, only to be muted by a murmured " _Silencio_ ," and a flash of light.

His mother knew. He knew she knew, by the tender way she'd always treat him the day after; the pain in her eyes when she'd look at him.

She'd handle him differently. Not enough for his father to notice; _never_ enough.

But maybe she'd smile at him kindly when he sat down at the breakfast table the next morning. Maybe she'd stroke his hair when his father's back was turned. And sometimes, when it was really bad, she'd come in and kiss him goodnight.

And that was enough for him to hold on to whenever rough hands shoved him up the stairs and into the cupboard (which was technically a small closet, but it was so narrow it might as well be dubbed so) next to his room.

Through his muted screams he'd try and distract himself with the thought of his mother's lips on his forehead, her gray eyes, the two times in her life she had murmured the words he so desperately wanted to hear his father say.

 _Crack_.

"You are a _disgrace_."

 _Crack_.

"Never in my life, have I ever known such an _insolent_ , _worthless_..."

 _Crack_.

"I am ashamed to call you my son."

 _Crack_.

 _I love you,_ Draco, she had said. _I love you_.

He'd will himself to think of those words being said by her. To think of her, only her. _Only her.._.

 _I love you. I love you -_

\- And like routine, his mind would betray him and distort the high voice into a low husk, spoken from pink-petal lips instead of white ones. Against his will, gray eyes would replace themselves with green ones in his mind's eye -

And like routine, the next lash across his back would serve as a sharp whip of reality; a painful reminder that it wouldn't do to dwell on foolish hopes and impossible impossibilities.

 _Crack_.

* * *

 _Reviews, follows and favorites are always greatly appreciated :)_

 _\- Ember_


	3. II A Sort-Of Elaboration Of Chapter One

**Chapter Two: An Elaboration Of Chapter One**

 **Harry**

The night was always the worst.

In the day, the rooms of The Burrow were bright and cheery, filled with laughter and talk and, simply put, life. Harry could almost forget the dark past in chocolate frogs and Weasley's Wizard Wheezes product testings and exchanging gagging faces with Fred and George as Ron and Hermione kissed on the couch (honestly, had they no shame?).

But in the night, he couldn't.

The eerie silence that always comes with darkness left entirely too much room for his thoughts to twist and turn and morph into beasts that devoured him from the inside out.

The tight space that was the guest bedroom in which Harry resided in always blackened at night, and its lack of light made it seem to shrink to an even smaller size, and it reminded him too much of yelling and beatings and _cupboards_ -

And so Harry often found himself on the roof, or swerving drunkenly over the city on his Firebolt, either way trying desperately to tame those horrid memories so he could store them in a little box in his mind and put them away forever.

The broom became his bed; moonlight his pillow; fear his blanket that brought no warmth.

He should have been exhausted from the lack of sleep - and he was. But the terror at the thought of dreaming Those Dreams kept him faithfully awake every single night.

That was all he was running off of: fear and the painfully hard task of _trying not to remember._ Those two things were his everything - without them, he would break.

He remembered that night, spent spiraling above London, when he just couldn't do it anymore. The circles under his eyes had been tinged _black_ , and the urge to lie down and rest, just for a little bit, was so _strong_...too strong...

As much as he had fought, he hadn't been able to stop his eyes from fluttering shut. His body had forced him to succumb to sleep, his grip loosening on the broomstick handle. He had swayed slightly, the wind rocking him back and forth like a soundless lullaby, and it had drawn from the depths of his memory one he heard as a child...

 _Rock-a-bye baby, on the treetop._

 _When the wind blows, the cradle will rock..._

It wasn't until he had flipped completely upside down did he wake, breathless and shaking and screaming (and who could blame him - how would you feel if you woke up upside-down and - more importantly - suspended midair on a broomstick?).

Over mountains and miles away, a boy woke in a cupboard, in quite a similar fashion: shaking and sweating and crying - but for a _very_ different reason.


	4. III Similar Circumstances

**Chapter Three: Similar Circumstances, Part One**

 **Draco**

The night Draco woke screaming and shaking in a cupboard was the night he learned two things.

They weren't very important things.

But they were significant nonetheless.

* * *

In future chapters, the numerous similarities which Draco and Harry share will indeed be revealed or implied.

As of now, however, for the sake of the plot, only one similarity between the boys has been cleairly stated: and that is their hatred for cupboards.

So why in Merlin, than, was Draco, the very boy who had the stronger hatred of the two, sleeping in a cupboard of his own free will?

He didn't know himself.

Well, yes, okay, he did know - partly, at least.

The part he didn't quite understand was why he had chosen this _particular_ cupboard to hide out in.

* * *

The Malfoy Manor was an unfathomably large building; so grand that the rare visitor could (and often would) get lost for hours on end.

So, as one would probably have guessed, that meant it contained more than its share of cupboards and closets and the occasional strange in-between things too small to call a closet and too large to be a cupboard that all mansions seem to have.

And yet, out of all of them, Draco chose _That Cupboard._

That Cupboard was one of those strange in between things, but it was of a decent size, tall and wide enough to fit two standing people of an average size - Draco learned this when he turned fourteen.

However, Draco was not of an average size. He hadn't been, for quite some time, which was the reason for the lack of fresh bloodstains on That Cupboard's walls and floor.

The weight he'd lost in the war didn't even begin to make up for the fact that he was much, much taller than what can be deemed normal. Thus, the night in the cupboard was an uncomfortable one, with his long limbs bent at awkward angles and pressed against the hard wood.

But we've gotten off topic.

That Cupboard was a strange sleeping choice for many reasons.

For starters, it was a fucking _cupboard_ , which to Draco of _all_ people should already be a reason to stay away.

Secondly, it was _That Cupboard_ , and that meant it had Memories, and a cupboard having Memories was never a good thing, in Draco's case.

Because Third, Memories almost _always_ mean nightmares.

So that was the second thing Draco Malfoy learned, and it was a strange one at that: don't sleep in cupboards.

But that still leaves us with two unanswered questions: what was the first thing? And why was Draco Malfoy sleeping in a _fucking_ cupboard?

* * *

In retrospect, he should never have said it.

Eighteen fucking years, where every day it was drilled into him _that you don't make father unhappy,_ and he still said it.

The letter had come by a Ministry Owl.

In a plain white envelope, with a simple red seal, the letter alone didn't scream danger.

What did, however, was the owl.

Before the war, Ministry Owls were nothing out of the sort. Lucius's position meant that invitations to meetings or dinners came weekly, and Draco had even become slightly acquainted with a snowy white one (which had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that it looked remarkably like Hedwig).

But after the war, Lucius had told them that a Ministry Owl meant two things: he had been found innocent, or charged guilty, so _heed it with caution_.

It had swooped in while they were eating dinner. The tawny creature had dropped the letter on Lucius's plate, hooted, and than flown out, all with perfect nonchalance, blissfully oblivious to the commotion it had just caused.

Lucius, midway through eating his filet mignon, stopped chewing.

Narcissa, sipping her water, choked.

And Draco, who hadn't been eating at all but shying away from his father's gaze, sat up a little straighter and prayed that the letter was stamped in red.

After Narcissa wiped her mouth and Lucius digested his steak, an uncomfortable silence filled the room.

Lucius was the first to speak.

"Well - better get on with it than," he drawled, obviously hoping to sound indifferent, but Draco noticed his hands had tensed around his utensils.

Slowly, he had picked up the letter.

He wiped a bit of mashed potato off the seal, and than opened it.

The paper was opaque, so Draco couldn't see what was written, he could only rely on his father's face for information; but after years of learning how to read Lucius's expressions, that told him a lot.

He watched as Lucius's eyes scanned the paper.

He watched those eyes darken.

Watched them narrow.

Watched as Lucius reached up, hands trembling, and unfolded the last bit of paper, the one that told him the verdict.

Watched as Lucius _growled_ and dropped the letter _._

He watched as his world fell apart.

* * *

 **Similar Circumstances, Part Two**

 **Draco**

Draco didn't see the world start to crack.

He didn't see any of that.

He only opened his eyes in time to see it fall apart.

He didn't see the hand whipping out. Didn't see the crystal goblet being slammed against the table.

He could only feel the shards of glass that clung to his face like nettles clinging to fabric, could only hear Narcissa's shriek of terror.

"Lucius-"

The world around him seemed to blur. He couldn't function; all he could do was focus on one sole thing: the letter.

 _Please._ His eyes squinted to see through the paper Lucius had dropped. Prayed that he would see a flash of inky red.

 _Please._

* * *

After that smashing of the goblet he wasn't quite sure what to do, and that uncertainty alone kept him frozen to his seat. So little are Malfoy's in a state of doubt that when they are, they are much like a deer in headlights: dumbfounded in the presence of the unexpected.

So there Draco sat for some time, petrified.

His senses had become detached in that state of terror, their usual perfect synchronicity very much diminished. His eyes would register one thing only for his ears to pick up the sound long after the images changed.

The world was fragmented. Clumsily, he tried to piece it back together -

Narcissa, her mouth forming soundless words, trying to calm Lucius.

"Just _listen_ -"

Her head whipping back, and moments later him feeling the delayed jolt beneath his fingertips, and -

"Father, no!"

The world reassembled.

Lucius obviously hadn't heard Draco, or if he had, he showed no sign of it. His hand was pulled back again, ready to darken the mark on Narcissa's cheek -

"Stop!"

The shout fled from his lips, like a wild animal fleeing from a too-small cage. Draco hadn't realized he had begun to rise from his seat until he had, his legs shaking beneath him.

Lucius stiffened, evidently perturbed.

"Did you say something."

Eyes darkening.

It wasn't a question, nor was it a statement. It was a hiss, said with reticence - a warning.

" _Stop."_ Draco mumbled, hoarsely; regretting it immediately after. He stared at the ground and bit his lip, trying to lock the cage.

 _Fuck._

Lucius's next movements were fluid. The hand came down, three long strides, and than he was inches from Draco's nose.  
Gray met gray and Draco swallowed, nervously, trying desperately not to break eye contact.

"Stop." He whispered, weakly this time.

And than Lucius stepped back, but Draco wasn't stupid enough to think that it was over; no, years of this had taught him differently.

But he was surprised nonetheless.

Lucius didn't yell.  
He didn't pull out his wand.  
He didn't do anything that Draco expected.

Instead, he smirked, eyes cold, and than _laughed._

It was a maniacal laugh, one that chilled every vein in Draco's body. He backed away, trembling; grabbing hold of Narcissa, who had been standing by him, watching the whole encounter.

"Get out," he whispered, eyes flickering between her and Lucius.  
She didn't budge, only clasped his hand in hers.

Draco yanked away.

"Are you fucking deaf, mother? Get out!" His voice rose with every syllable, panic fraying the edges.

Narcissa snapped. She nodded quickly, murmured a quiet " _Goodbye_ ," and than apparated with a ' _crack_ '.

To where, Draco hadn't the slightest clue.

His eyes trailed after her for a moment, and than snapped back to Lucius. He wasn't laughing anymore.

Draco reached for his wand, long fingers trembling.

Lucius simply smirked, and that alone made Draco's blood run cold.

"Don't." Draco whispered frantically, wand now held in front of him like it was his shield (as it very much was). "Don't touch me."

He slowly shuffled backwards, hand quavering, terrified at the silence. "Don't _touch_ me!" He shouted.

Lucius smiled.

Slowly, he closed the distance between Draco and himself, wand now held in hand.

 _"_ I wouldn't dream of it," He hissed, trailing the wooden tip tantalizingly under Draco's chin (here Draco felt and looked very much like he had in Third Year when Hermione had done a similar action).

Draco barely registered the next words that formed on Lucius's lips in time.

" _Sectumsempr_ -"

"Protego!" Draco shouted, ducking.

The arc of blue light effectively repelled the jet of sparks expelled from Lucius's wand, but Draco had barely breathed a quick sigh of relief before the next curse was coming at him - _fast_.

" _Cruc_ -"

Draco ducked and dashed madly up the twisting stairs behind him.

* * *

There was blood everywhere.

Red cuts littered Draco's wrists and legs, where the white light of _Sectumsempra_ had grazed. Every movement he made scorched through him with a fiery pain - but he _had_ to keep running. His father's footsteps sounded behind him.

He was almost there. He hated his destination, but it was _safe._

But as he ran, something tugged at his mind.

The letter.  
He had to know.

It would cost him time; it would be cutting it _so close_. But he just -

 _Fuck it._

"Accio letter!" He screamed, desperately.

\- _had_ to know. For sure.

The paper came flying at him just as Lucius rounded the corner. For once, Draco was glad of his height as he jumped and easily snatched the letter from its midair flight.

"Alohomora!" He shouted at the cupboard behind him.

Yes - That Cupboard. Draco remembered why he had chosen it, now: its size.

With blood soaked hands he fumbled to move the latch, gasping as Lucius clawed at the back of his shirt. He scrambled to get inside.

Later, he'd laugh at the irony that he was running to a cupboard for _safety_.

With a _riiiiiiip_ of fabric he yanked away and slammed then door shut, pressing his back against the wood to keep it closed. With a few quickly murmured words, yellow light cascaded over the walls - a shield.

He stayed like that for quite some time: crouched in the corner, shaking, afraid that any second the glow around him would falter and Lucius would burst in with _Crucio_ on the tip of his tongue.

But he needn't have worried. Draco was a skilled wizard, and the spell he cast was sure - obscenities rang in his ears and the cabinet walls shook, but the light was as steady as it could ever be.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, he slumped down in the corner and opened the letter.  
He knew the verdict, as you probably do, by now.

He just had to see it for himself.

 _For sure_.

* * *

 **Narrator**

So that was the first thing Draco learned that day - or night, rather: _it's better to keep your mouth shut._

Now, before you furrow your brow and fuss about how not saying anything would've gotten Narcissa hurt, so that wasn't a very good thing to take from the experience, let me explain.

That was what _Draco_ thought he should've learned. And although Draco is many great things, wise is not always one of them. Maybe it was, once, but years of living with Lucius had clouded his judgement.

If anything, he should have been thinking of the fact that his life would never be the same again.

* * *

A/N: I'm so sorry! This wasn't very good. I hope things didn't escalate too quickly.

IMPORTANT:

The whole point as to why the fight happened was because Lucius was very much agitated at the verdict (you'll find out more about that later: there's a little twist)

He was distressed, and so when Narcissa tried to calm him down, he slapped her.

Why? He was mad, and when you're mad, you always seem to attack the first person who bothers you.

Lucius was pissed at Draco because you don't question Lucius's actions. (Yeah, Lucius is an asshole.) He had meant for it to be quick "Cruico," but than Draco blocked it and that's why they fought.

THIS CHAPTER MIGHT SEEM INSIGNIFICANT AND NOT NEEDED BUT IT'LL MAKE SENSE LATER.

Either way, despite its mediocrity, I hope you found this chapter somewhat enjoyable.

\- Ember


	5. IV Hogwarts

**Harry**

* * *

To Harry's relief, the ride to Hogwarts was both uneventful and completely predictable. Hermione chatted enthusiastically about all the subjects she wanted them to take - "Honestly, Harry, you should really try Arithmancy. It's such a fascinating class. Professor Vector is simply _wonderful_ -" - Ron pretended to listen to Hermione, muttering falsely eager " _Mhhm_ "'s and " _Yes, of course_ "'s when necessary, and Harry himself alternated between mimicking Ron's suite and staring out the window.

He was truly glad for Hermione's rambling tendencies, as it meant he had no room to speak even if he _wanted_ to, which he most certainly didn't. He was afraid the moment he opened his mouth, nothing but incomprehensible strings of words would come out in place of sentences.

"...Really, Harry," Hermione was saying, "If you want to be an Auror, you're going to _have_ to take Potions - _yes_ , Ronald, I _know_ he doesn't like Professor Snape! You aren't the only one who's noticed - _honestly_ , I sat next to him practically every bloody _day_ in that class. Remember third year? But back to the matter..."  
Harry fiddled with the front of his robes. He hadn't thought about that - Snape, or becoming an Auror. Before the war, he had been so sure, but now...now he didn't know _what_ to do.  
The thought unsettled him.  
"What...you're...um- how many first years will - uh, are there this year, do you think?" He managed to get out. He didn't want to dwell on uncertain matters.

"Wha-" Hermione looked surprised at his interruption. "Oh. Oh, I'm not sure! Not many, I presume - after all, we did just have a war. I suppose quite a number of parents don't deem Hogwarts safe anymore. Not that it isn't, of course - there's those new security measures and all..."

Here she gasped.

"Do you think they'll rewrite _Hogwarts, A History_ because of the war?" Hermione said ecstatically. "I _must_ ask Headmistress McGonagall when we arrive. I admit, the volume I read last was slightly dated - not a _thing_ on The Sorcerer's Stone encounter or the Chamber of Secrets, although they might be trying to keep that hushed. It's understandable, of course, yet still..."  
Harry smiled weakly, trying to let Hermione's rant drown the cargo of uncertainty in his mind. He had a full year to figure out those things, after all.

* * *

They arrived at Hogwarts a little after half past four. Almost immediately, Hermione jumped from her seat, buzzing with glee. Without a word to the boys, she sprinted out the compartment, frizzy hair flying and door slamming behind her.  
She reappeared several moments later, wind flushed and beaming.  
"Oh, do come see! It's _wonderful."_

* * *

Workers and teachers alike had spent the entire post-war summer redoing (or supervising the redoing) of Hogwarts. Harry and Hermione beheld the crisp new campus, almost identical to the old, with awe. Sections of the castle that had been blasted to rubble now stood gleaming and very much intact. Grounds once scorched and putrid with strewn bodies now lay lush and smoothed over. Every inch of the sprawling grounds seemed to have been rebuilt or refurbished, perfected down to the very dirt. The only thing hinting at the place's dark and close past was a golden plaque, simple and small, etched into the field where the final battle had played out; the field where Voldemort had announced, to the dread of so many, that _H_ _arry Potter was dead._

 _ **Here lies the very spot**_

 _ **Where the Dark Lord, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named**_

 _ **Was vanquished, once and for all**_

 _ **By our Savior**_

 _ **Harry James Potter**_

That same Harry Potter stood now, very much alive, inspecting the plate.  
"Can't bear to say his name even after he's been done in, can they?" He grumbled at nothing. He felt oddly annoyed.  
There was a small gasp.  
" _Harry!"_ Hermione, who had appeared beside him, scolded, in a tone worthy of Mrs. Weasley, "You should be honored! To be mentioned on Hogwarts grounds like this -"  
But Harry wasn't listening. He was remembering what Dumbledore had said to him, long ago, during his first year, after he had faced said Dark Lord.

Or part of him, anyway.

" _Call him Voldemort, Harry. Always use the proper name for things_."

His heart clenched.

"Voldemort," he muttered, scuffing his shoe against the words, "Voldemort, not this He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named rubbish."

Hermione winced.

"Oh, get a grip, won't you!" He snapped.

He was much more agitated than he normally would've been. The memory of Dumbledore was making his head spin with fury, and red clouded the words he was staring ruefully at.

His eyes flickered upwards. In the distance, he could just make out the Astronomy Tower.

 _Draco, Draco._

 _You are not a killer._

Harry stiffened. Without so much as a glance towards Hermione, he turned on his heel and strode towards the castle.

* * *

"You alright, mate?" Ron asked worriedly, after catching up with Harry in the Entrance Hall. "Hermione said you just kinda...took off back there."

"She tells you everything that happens, does she?" Harry spat.

He turned a little to sharply to the right, accidentally knocking into six giggling First Years. The girls didn't look offended, though; if anything, they giggled harder, and as they walked off Harry heard a glimpse of " _Chosen One_ ," and " _Defeated You-Know-Who,_ " followed by a shriek and more high-pitched squeals.

This annoyed Harry even _further_ , if that was possible. He scowled.  
"Merlin, I swear..." He muttered darkly, trailing off. He didn't get to finish his sentence, however, because just at that moment the duo was joined by a very flustered Hermione.  
"Was it something I said?" She whispered urgently once she had caught her breath. "I'm sorry, Harry, I didn't realize -"  
"Just - forget it." Harry murmured. He shrugged, trying to act like it didn't matter. Because it didn't, really. It wasn't _Hermione's_ fault that his brain kept fucking up and making him relive those horrid moments. And the last thing he needed was a row with one of his best friends on his first day back.  
Hermione looked slightly confused, but she relaxed considerably.

"Alright," she said, smiling hesitantly.

The now trio passed the double doors and entered Great Hall, scanning the room for their fellow Eighth Years. As they did, the usual collective gasps sounded, which they all pointedly ignored.  
"Over there," Hermione mouthed, pointing towards the front end of the Gryffindor table. There was empty space next to Neville.  
By the time the three had gotten halfway to their spots, a third of the room had fallen silent. Harry could feel eyes boring onto his back, and he shifted uncomfortably, quickening his pace.

"Hi, Neville," Hermione said cheerfully when they arrived, sliding onto the bench. The boy looked up, briefly startled, but than he smiled widely.  
"Hi, Hermione," He greeted.  
When the talking resumed and Harry and Ron slid in next to Hermione, he leaned over.  
"I know. People keep staring at me, too. It's horrible," He whispered, reddening. "They do it even when I'm not with you, Harry!" He added, clearly unnerved by this bit of information.  
Harry grinned wryly.

"They _do_ notice you more now. I heard some girls giggling about you, on the way over here. I think they must like you - there were lots of Wrackspurts," Said a dreamy sort of voice.

Luna Lovegood was seated next to Neville, in all of her insane glory.  
"Hello there." She waved towards Harry, Ron, and Hermione, her eyes fixed on something directly opposite them (Ron looked over, but there was absolutely nothing there).

"Erm, 'ello," he said awkwardly, after a few moments of looking around.

Further conversing was prevented by a loud _bang_. They all jumped and wheeled around to see Hagrid, ushering in a group of First Years, the usual looks of terror etched on their frost - bitten faces. A few of them pointed in awe at the candles hovering at various points around the room, but most had their sights fixed on the hat that McGonagall had just placed on a four-legged stool.

The Sorting Hat.

Upon seeing it, Hermione grinned, and Ron's face split into a look of sanguine as well.

Harry smiled weakly at his friend's jubilant faces, a wave of nausea suddenly overtaking him. The rip opened, and a song left it, but he couldn't hear. Memories were seeping into the sounds around him, muffling them.

 _Maybe they're going to pull a rabbit out of it..._

 _"Fred said it hurts a lot, but I think he was joking"..._

 _What if I fail?_

A ginger-haired girl stepped forward, in a manner that remind him much of Ginny.

 _Where_ is _Ginny?_ He wondered, through the haze. She had kissed his cheek, and than ran off to a different compartment with her friends...  
But he couldn't finish the thought, because another recollection was swallowing him again.

 _Not Slytherin, not Slytherin, please -_

 _You could do great in Slytherin, you know -_

 _No? Oh well, better be -_

"Slytherin!" A voice bellowed. Harry jumped, his breath caught in his throat.

 _Stupid, that was just that girl._

Shaking slightly, he watched the flaming head travel towards the table with those clad in green. The sea of emerald parted, and she scooted in next to a slumped figure with a blonde head.

 _Slytherin._

 _Is that -_

* * *

 _A/N: Hello! The rest of this story can be found on Wattpad. There are many more chapters on there...around nine, I believe, and it's updated more regularly. It just became too much for me to manage both sites._

 _Hope to see you there!_

 _\- Em_


End file.
